The Vagabond

—The autumn leaves— Although there is no paradise nor a place where he is welcomed the waned vagabond has to leave when autumn is at hand. No way to search for why, and dwells in such a crooked fatality at this, likewise, the distressed annual ring grown under the shade, darkens by the sun that has turned against him. As the night falls, the vagabond, in need of a night’s shelter, stops for a moment and looks back to count his own footmarks he has left behind. Nevertheless, when the lights are gone, from the windows nearby and yonder the dewdrops fall onto the darkened pathway and are anxious to know the monotony of a journey that is in a torn knapsack. Autumn leaf is a vagabond. The fruits of a happy home is the blossoms that never was found on the boughs of a fig tree. For the sake of the cold dewdrops, Oh, night, too long.